Stories from Switzerland

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Title: Stories from Switzerland

Author: Anonymous

Release Date: July 6, 2020 [EBook #62568]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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STORIES

FROM

SWITZERLAND.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE AUTHOR “OF THE TWO OLD MEN,” &c.

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L O N D O N:

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY;

Instituted 1799.

SOLD AT THE DEPOSITORY, 56, PATERNOSTER ROW;

AND BY THE BOOKSELLERS.

——
1837.

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CONTENTS.

Page.

The pleasure of being able to read
3

Are you happy when you are cross?
9

Maurice; or, the way of the slothful is a hedge of thorns
14

The real friend
20

Idle Dick
29

The lady-bird
56

The lost child
61

Real charity
67

Providence; or, the mother and child
75

Lucy; or, “I will not be naughty again, Papa.”
90

A lesson of mercy
102

Mountain John and the bear
111

Hymns for children
125

One blow of the chisel does not make a statue
134

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STORIES FROM SWITZERLAND

FOR

JUVENILE READERS.

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THE PLEASURE OF BEING ABLE TO READ.

Boys and girls who have learned to read, are able to examine the Holy Bible, which is the book that tells us about God, and from
which we learn about our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

They can also read this blessed book to aged persons who were not taught when they were young, and to blind people, or those

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who are sick.

I am about to relate a little story upon this subject.
Mr. Williams was one day walking in the fields; as he passed through a meadow in which some sheep were feeding, he saw a

little boy about eight years old sitting under a tree. He was quite idle, and gaped and stretched his arms about as if he felt very
uncomfortable.

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Mr. Williams stopped and said, “My boy, are you well?”
“O, Yes,” answered the boy, “I am very well; but I am quite tired, and I do not know what to do.”
Mr. W. Have not you to look after these sheep?
Boy. Yes, and I have been here ever since six o’clock this morning.
Mr. W. How have you employed yourself during that time?
Boy. Why, what could I do? I had nothing to do, and I feel quite tired.
Mr. W. Why did not you bring your Testament with you, and read a few chapters, or learn some verses by heart while looking

after your sheep? you would not have felt so tired, and would have gained some useful knowledge.

The boy did not reply, but held down his head and looked quite ashamed.
Mr. W. I suppose you forgot to bring your Testament; I am going further, and will lend you mine till I return; here it is.
The boy looked still more ashamed, but did not say a word.
Mr. W. Why do not you take it? I am afraid you do not know how to read; is that the case?
Boy. Nobody ever taught me, Sir; and I cannot teach myself.
Mr. W. Poor boy; then you never read the holy word of God. I am very sorry for you: it is the best of books, and by attending to

what it tells us, even a child may learn how to become wise and happy.

Boy. Indeed, Sir, I wish I could read, for I am quite tired of having nothing to do while I mind the sheep.
Mr. W. I do not wonder at this; you would not only pass your time more pleasantly if you read the Bible, but you would also

learn about our Lord Jesus Christ, and how he died for sinners; the Bible teaches us to love him, and to seek to do his will.

Mr. Williams then advised the boy to ask his master’s leave that he might go to the Sunday School; and said, that when the long

winter evenings came, he might get one of his companions to help him, and he would very soon learn to read.

This kind gentleman then walked on till he came to a cottage where a weaver lived, to whom he wished to speak respecting some

work.

Mr. Williams found the weaver very busy at his loom, and while they were conversing he heard the voice of some young person

who was reading in the next room. It was the Parable of the Sower, which I dare say you recollect is in the 4th chapter of St. Mark’s
gospel. It was read in a very distinct and proper manner, as if the reader understood it.

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When Mr. Williams had given his orders, he asked who was reading in the next room.
The Weaver. It is my neighbour’s daughter; she is a very good girl, and comes every day to read the Bible to my aged mother,

who has been blind for the last three months, so that she cannot read for herself; and I like to hear her as I sit in my loom.

Mr. W. How old is she?
The Weaver. She is not much above eight years old; but she is more steady than many of ten or eleven.
Mr. Williams then went to the room door, and saw the little girl standing by the old woman’s chair, reading a large Bible which

lay on the window seat.

She read very distinctly, as I mentioned just now; she minded her stops, and took pains to pronounce every word properly, so

that it was very easy to understand what she read. She did not gabble it over like some little folks I am acquainted with, as if she were
trying to get the words out of her mouth as fast as possible.

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The weaver’s aged mother listened very attentively, and appeared very thankful to hear the blessed word of God; when the little

girl had finished the parable, she stopped, and the old woman explained what was meant by the good seed. She said that it was the
word of God which taught us about the Saviour, and that when this good seed was sown in our hearts by him, and we were enabled to
understand it by the teaching of the Holy Spirit, then we loved him for all he had done and suffered for us; and, being cleansed from
our sins by his precious blood, we desired to do his will.

The little girl listened very attentively, and after asking some questions, began to read again.
Mr. Williams then went into the room, and after asking the old woman how she was; he then turned to the little girl, and said, “My

dear, I dare say you are very happy to be able to read; as you can read not only for yourself, but also you are able to make this good
old woman very happy too.”

The little girl replied, “Yes, Sir, I am very glad to read to our kind neighbour; do you know, Sir, that she taught me to read three

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years ago.”

Mr. W. Did you find it very difficult?
Little Girl. It was rather hard, Sir; but she taught me a little every day. She was very particular that I never missed coming to her,

and I soon found that it became easier.

The old woman then said, “I trust that God has blessed this little girl; she was very attentive and soon learned to read the

Testament, and I hope He will be pleased, by his Holy Spirit, to enable her to understand the truths it contains, for she becomes more
and more attentive every day.”

Mr. W. Then I am sure that she is happier every day: because nothing can make us happy, but loving the Saviour and doing his

will.

Mr. Williams then gave his Testament to the little girl, who had long wished to have one of her own. He advised her to read a

chapter every day, and to pray to God for a blessing, and then bade them all good bye.

As he returned home he could not help thinking what a great difference there was between the shepherd boy who was tired of

doing nothing, because he did not know how to read; and the little girl who was so happy at being able to read the Testament to her
kind neighbour.

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ARE YOU HAPPY WHEN YOU ARE CROSS?

Lucy was just six years old. One day she was sitting on a little stool, by the side of her mother’s chair, and reading the last chapter of
St. John’s gospel. “Mamma,” said Lucy, “what did Christ mean when he told St. Peter to feed his lambs?”

Mamma. My dear, do you not recollect reading some time ago, that Christ said he was the good shepherd, and that his people

were the sheep?

Lucy. Oh yes, mamma, I recollect reading that; but I forget where it is.
M. It is in the 10th chapter of St. John.
L. Stop, mamma, please let me find it; O, here it is, the 14th verse, “I am the good shepherd.” I suppose Jesus said so?
M. Yes; have not you sometimes seen a shepherd taking care of his flock?
L. O yes, mamma; we saw a shepherd that day you and papa took me a walk by the side of the wood.
M. Do you recollect how pleased you were to see the little lambs skipping about?
L. Yes; you told me to repeat the verse,

“Abroad in the meadows to see the young lambs,
“Run sporting about by the side of their dams,

“With fleeces so clean and so white.”

But, mamma, some of the little lambs have black faces; and, mamma, don’t you recollect, as we returned home, we met the

shepherd, and he had got a little lamb in his arms, which had fallen into a pit and hurt itself. How kind the shepherd was in taking care
of this little lamb!

M. The prophet Isaiah spoke of the Saviour many hundred years before he came from heaven, and compared him to a shepherd.

In the 40th chapter, the prophet says, “He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in
his bosom.”

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L. But, mamma, I do not quite understand this; Christ is not now upon earth, and when he was here he did not keep sheep.
M. No, my dear; but it is to make us understand that our Lord takes care of his people, as the shepherd takes care of his sheep;

and he does not forget children, as you saw the shepherd did not forget his lambs.

L. But who are his lambs?
M. You, my dear Lucy, are one; if you love him, and believe in him as your Saviour, and seek to do his will in all things, and are

willing to follow his word.

L. O, mamma, I should like to be one; how quiet and happy the lamb seemed to be when the shepherd was carrying it.
M. Well, then, my dear love, pray to the Saviour; he said, “Suffer little children to come to me and forbid them not;” pray to him,

that he may give you a new heart, which will be happy in loving him and obeying his word, through the power of the Holy Spirit, which
he has promised to give to all that ask it; and earnestly try to be a good girl, and to subdue all naughty and unkind tempers.

Lucy again thanked her mamma; and as she had finished her lesson, she went and put her book away in its place. I hope my

readers will remember this, for it is very untidy to leave books littering about upon chairs or the floor. She then took her work, and
went and sat down by the window, and began to sew very busily.

Just as she had begun, her little brother Samuel came into the room; he went up to her, and said, “Lucy, dear, if you please, will

you cut out this paper stag for me? I have drawn its legs very nicely, as you see, but I am afraid I shall not be able to cut them out

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properly, they are so very slender, and I want to put it on papa’s table before he comes home, to surprise him.”

I am sorry to say, that instead of doing this directly, and in a kind manner, Lucy frowned, and said, in a short sharp tone, “How

troublesome you are, you are always teazing me; I have just sat down to work and I am too busy, go and do it yourself.”

Little Samuel was a good boy, and instead of returning a sharp answer to her cross speech, he said, “Lucy, please to cut it out,

you will do it so much better than I can, and it will not take you a minute.” Lucy put down her work, and took up her scissors; but
when people set about a thing in an ill humour they never do it properly, and this was the case with Lucy. Her brother had taken a
great deal of pains to draw the stag very nicely, but she cut it out very carelessly, and presently poor Samuel saw that one of its legs
was cut quite off.

“There,” said he: “there, my poor stag; it is quite spoiled, you have cut its leg off.”
“Finish it yourself,” said Lucy, throwing the stag one way and the scissors another. “It’s all your fault, you ought to have let me go

on quietly with my work, and not come to interrupt me, as you always do.”

Poor Samuel looked quite surprised; he was sorry to see his nice stag spoiled, but he was still more sorry to see Lucy so out of

humour, and he could not think that it was his fault. Indeed, I have generally found that when people are very ready to blame others,
the fault has commonly been their own, after all.

“Lucy,” said her mother, “is this like one of the little lambs we were talking about? Remember, my child, God sees you, and do

you think he is pleased that you should speak in such a manner to your brother? Is that following the example of Christ?”

Lucy felt that she was wrong, and burst into tears. Her mother took her upon her knee, and said, “Lucy, now you feel that it is

necessary to pray to the Saviour, to give you a new heart, and to enable you to subdue all naughty and unkind tempers, and that you
should try to do so. Do you feel happy because you were so cross and out of humour?”

Lucy was now convinced that she had done wrong; and that if she had behaved to Samuel as a sister should act to a brother, she

would neither have spoiled his stag nor have done what was a great deal worse. I mean, she would not have given way to a naughty
temper, quite contrary to what the Bible tells us: “Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly love.” “O mama,” said she, “I do
feel very sorry, and I will pray to the Saviour—”

“That you may be one of his lambs,” said her mother. “Do this really from your heart, then you will feel more happy. For God is

very kind to us, and we ought to try to be the same to others. Remember, Christ said, ‘All things whatsoever ye would that men should
do to you, do you even so to them, for this is the law and the prophets.’ ”

Lucy kissed her mother, and went to her little desk. She took out a very pretty drawing of a basket of fruit, and gave it to

Samuel, saying, “Here, Sammy, pray take this instead of your stag which I spoiled, and this besides;” she then gave him a kiss, he gave
her another, and then ran away quite consoled for his loss.

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MAURICE;

Or, the Way of the Slothful is a Hedge of Thorns.

People say that idle folks are good-for-nothing folks: but they might say much more upon the subject. Idleness is a sin against God,
and therefore idlers never can be happy; for how can any persons be happy when they are committing sin?

Maurice knew this very well, at least his parents had often told him so; but Maurice still continued his sinful habits of idleness,

carelessness, and self-indulgence; he very often neglected his duties, and I need not add, that he was very often unhappy. My dear
children, you might as easily count the sparks which fly up the chimney, as reckon up the sins and troubles which come from idleness.

Maurice had passed several unhappy idle weeks. He did not like to write a copy; he said his lessons were all so hard that he

could not learn them; he laid in bed of a morning till obliged to get up; and when his brothers and sisters asked him to do any thing for
them, he spoke cross and pushed them away. He was dull, peevish, and discontented; just as idle boys and girls always are. There he
is in the picture; he sat for two hours together playing with his keys, rather than learn his lesson, though he wished for a game of play,
and knew that he could not be allowed to play till he had repeated it.

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People generally go on from bad to worse, and the last week was the worst of all. It began badly. On Sunday morning Maurice

gave way to a naughty temper, and spoke to his mother in a very improper manner.

Instead of praying to God to send away this evil temper, he thought about something else while he repeated his prayer, and ate

his breakfast without asking a blessing, just as a little dog would have done.

After breakfast he teazed his sisters, and did all he could to hinder them from learning the chapter they were to repeat to their

father in the afternoon. He went to church it is true, but he did not attend to any thing that he heard; part of the time he looked about
him, and the remainder he sat yawning, and he asked three times when the sermon would be over.

I have told my little readers enough about his naughty behaviour; the rest of the day passed much in the same manner, and the rest

of the week like the Sunday. I have always found that unless there is “Happy Sunday,” there will not be “a Happy Week.” Thus there
was nothing but idleness, quarrelling, disobedience, ill-tempers, and ill-manners; and poor Maurice during this week fully shewed the

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sinfulness of his heart. His behaviour clearly proved the truth of the text, “His servants ye are whom ye obey;” (Romans vi. 16.) and my
readers will recollect that when this text was written the servants were slaves. He had obeyed Satan by his wicked conduct on the
Sabbath, and he continued to serve that hard master all the week, with a constant attention to his will that was very dreadful. How
much better it would have been to have served the Saviour, “whose yoke is easy and whose burden is light.” His father was very kind,
and warned him several times of the consequences of such conduct. On the following Sunday he spoke again to Maurice for a
considerable time, telling him how displeasing such conduct was to the Lord.

“For God looks down from heav’n on high,

“Our actions to behold;

“And he is pleas’d when children try

“To do as they are told.”

and,

“His own most holy book declares,
“He loves good children still;
“And that he answers all their pray’rs,
“Just as a tender father will.”

His kind father also reminded Maurice of the example of our Saviour, who employed himself in doing his Father’s will: and he

asked Maurice whether he was happy when he did not try to please God, but did the very things from which Christ is ready to deliver
his children, when they really pray to him for the forgiveness of their sins.

I am sorry to say Maurice did not attend to this kind advice, and his father determined to let him experience more of the

unhappiness which follows from such conduct, so he let him go on his own way till Saturday.

He then took Maurice for a walk, and they came to a pleasant meadow, which was separated from the road by a very high and

strong thorn hedge. Perceiving that Maurice was walking with his eyes fixed on the ground, and making faces, his father suddenly
turned into the meadow, by the gate which they were just passing, and walked along a path on the other side of the hedge.

Maurice had gone some distance before he found that he was alone, he then looked about for his father, and at length saw him in

the field.

“Father, father,” cried he, “why have you left me? Wait for me, pray wait for me.”
Father. Come to me; this path is very pleasant, and the meadow is full of beautiful flowers.
Maurice. But the hedge is so thick, I cannot get to you. Oh! it has pricked my hands so badly. Papa, how did you get there?
F. Try again; see if you cannot push the branches aside, and put your foot firm upon the bank.
Maurice tried again, but he only pricked his hands, and scratched his legs; at last he began to cry.
F. Go a little further and try again.
Maurice went backwards and forwards, and tried here and there, but all in vain; the gate was round a corner and he could not

see it.

M. Dear papa, I cannot get to you; pray come and fetch me.
F. Why cannot you come of yourself?
M. Oh, papa, look at these thorns, the hedge is full of them, and it is so thick I cannot put my hand through. How can I pass it, I

shall be torn to pieces; do look at my hands, see they are all bloody.

His father then ran back, and came out of the field through the gate, and called Maurice. He sat down, and taking out his little

Bible told him to turn to Prov. xv. 19.

Maurice read “The way of the slothful man is as an hedge of thorns.”
F. Tell me, my boy, do you understand what this text means? You have pricked your fingers and scratched your hands; but tell

me the truth, are not these troubles as nothing when compared with the discontent, and self-reproaches, and shame, in which you have
passed all this week? Is not the word of God true? And we cannot be happy while doing those things which are contrary to his word.
My dear Maurice, listen to me, and remember what I say. The Lord tells us in his word, as you see, that the way of the slothful, that is
to say his conduct or his life, is like a thorn hedge. The word of God is always true. You have been unhappy lately because you have
done what God declares is contrary to his will. You will be just as uncomfortable to-morrow, the next day, and as long as you continue
this conduct. There always will be a thorn hedge before you, whenever you give way to carelessness, idleness, or other naughty ways;
and though you see others good and happy, and wish to be like them, you will think that you cannot do as they do. Your idleness will
bring its own punishment, for the slothful man punishes himself by his idleness, and God is angry with him.

Maurice felt this, for the Lord was pleased to touch his heart, and cause him to feel the truth of what his father said. He put his

hands round his father’s neck, and exclaimed, “I am very sorry I have been so naughty and so foolish; I am very sorry indeed that I
have sinned against God, and I hope not to do so again.”

F. My dear Maurice, you have promised this more than once already, but the thorn hedge has always been in your way, and

you could not pass it. You know what I mean. Now can you tell me why you could not leave off being naughty?

M. Yes, papa; I know why it was. I did not ask the Saviour to give me a new heart; but I will do so now, indeed I will; I will not

leave off praying to him to cure me of my evil ways till he has taught me to do His will.

Maurice’s father then kissed him, and said, “Whatever you ask from our heavenly Father, in the name of his son our Lord Jesus

Christ, He has promised that he will bestow; then, my dear child, seek for his grace at once, pray for it to day, pray for it now.”

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Perhaps some other time, I may tell you if Maurice did pray to God to deliver him from his idleness, and whether this hedge of

thorns was taken out of his way. Meanwhile my readers may hope that it was removed; and let them see whether there is not a hedge
of thorns in their own way. If there is, I hope they will not rest till they have found out how to pass it.

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THE REAL FRIEND.

“Mamma,” said Henry, “may I go and play with William, this afternoon?”
Mamma. Why do you wish to go to play with William rather than with Thomas, who lives so much nearer?
Henry. I like very well to play with Thomas; but if you please I had rather go to see William.
M. I wonder at that, for Thomas has a great many more playthings than William; I know he has a very nice paint box, and you are

very fond of painting pictures.

H. Yes; poor William has hardly any playthings, except a few old ones that I have given him.
M. Then how do you amuse yourselves?
H. Oh! he is so very clever, he is always making me laugh and trying to please me; and then he can keep a secret; he never tells

any body what I say.

M. Pray what good is there in that? Do you say things that are wrong, and such as you would be ashamed of, if other persons

knew them?

H. No, I don’t mean that; but it is so nice to have a secret.
M. Then, I suppose, if you say any thing that is silly or foolish, William never tells you it is wrong?
H. Oh, he can say foolish things as well as I; and then he tells me so many funny stories; there’s Puss in Boots, and I don’t know

how many more, and there’s his story about Old Uncle Natty.

M. What! do you mean his Uncle Nathaniel?
H. Yes, mamma; William one day asked him for three-pence to buy a pound of cherries, but he would only give him a penny, and

William always calls him—

M. Stop, Henry; I am afraid William is a naughty boy, and I do not wish to hear such a story as that.
H. But, mamma, may we not laugh sometimes?
M. Certainly but not at such silly or wicked things:—in what other manner do you and William amuse yourselves?
H. In a great many ways; sometimes we draw, or we play in the garden.
M. Pray which of you draws the best?
H. William draws houses better than I do, but I can draw horses and trees the best, and I often draw landscapes and men on

horseback for him.

M. And which of you can run fastest?
H. I can.
M. Is not William sometimes out of humour because you do these things better than he can?
H. O no; the other day he told me I drew so prettily, that he had rather see me draw for a quarter of an hour than draw for a

whole day by himself.

M. What becomes of these pretty drawings?
H. He pins them against the wall in his bed-room.
M. Why do you not ask William to come home, sometimes? As you are such great friends I should think he would be glad to

come to see you.

H. Why, mamma, William says he does not feel so comfortable here; he is always afraid of you.
M. How so?
H. Why, mamma, you are so wise, that he is afraid to say just whatever comes into his head.
M. But Thomas always seems very happy when he is here.
H. Oh, he is so wise, we call him the Judge: we have always called him so since the day we went to see farmer Martin.
M. But why do you call him so?
H. You know, mamma, that we must cross the long meadow to go to farmer Martin’s. To save the trouble of going all the way

round to the gate, William said we had better scramble through the hedge and make a short cut across the grass. Thomas looked as
grave as a judge, and told us that the hedge was made on purpose that people should not scramble through it, and that it was not right
to trample down the grass. William said, that we should not do much harm, and that many others had often done so before us. Thomas
asked him if we were to do wrong because others did the same? William directly jumped over the hedge and ran across the meadow
crying out, “Who cares for cowards; not I, for one.”

M. Did you follow William?
H. No; Thomas would not let me; he made me go round by the gate, and along the path with him.
M. And what did William say, when you arrived at the farm?
H. Why, he had tumbled into a ditch which the long grass had prevented him from seeing; the cow-boy pulled him out and was

washing him at the pump.

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M. Did Thomas tell William he had done wrong?
H. Not at first; but when the cow-boy was gone, he said, “William you had better have gone along the path as we did.”
M. Is this the reason why you call him the Judge?
H. Yes, mamma, but you ought to have heard with what a grave tone he spoke—just like a judge on the bench.
M. Ought not serious things to be said in a grave manner?
H. Yes; but he makes such grave speeches.
M. Do you recollect one of these grave speeches?
H. Oh, yes, I can easily do that. The other day I was going to tell him something his sister had said; it was nothing very particular,

but somehow I hoped it would have made him angry with her. All at once Thomas stopped me, and said, “A whisperer separateth
chief friends;” and if you had but seen how grave he looked.

M. Open the Bible and you will find this grave speech as you call it, in the 17th chapter of Proverbs. My dear Henry, it was not

Thomas but the word of God that stopped you.

H. Indeed, mamma, I did not know it was in the Bible. But Thomas is always so grave; he looks as if he meant to tell you every

thing I say or do. As we came home from farmer Martin’s I got up behind a carriage, and the coachman did not find me out for a long
while; but when Thomas overtook me, he said such a deal about its being wrong to get up behind a carriage without leave.

M. What did he say?
H. Oh, I hardly recollect all: he said it was unjust, for I did it without asking leave. I am sure you will say that it is nonsense to call

such a trifle as that unjust.

M. I am quite of Thomas’s opinion; what would you have thought, if a person had put two or three sacks of corn behind the

carriage?

H. That would have tired the horses and made them go slower, and the people would not have arrived so soon at their journey’s

end.

M. Then to do so would have been unjust, would it not?
H. I understand what you mean, mamma; though I am not so heavy as a sack of corn, yet I see I was wrong.
M. Well, then, you also see that Thomas was right; but what said William?
H. He whispered to me, “Never mind him; you had a nice ride.”
M. Was that right?
H. No, I see it was wrong.
M. Well, my dear boy, as you understand what I mean, I will tell you something more. Do not forget what I am going to say, for it

is in the Bible. “A man that flattereth his neighbour spreadeth a net for his feet,” (Prov. xxix. 5.); and “Every man is a friend to him that
giveth gifts.” (Prov. xix. 6.) Now, tell me the truth: should you be so fond of William if he contradicted you, or would not do just as you
wished him?

H. Perhaps not. Yesterday I was angry with him because he would not take a walk with me.
M. Has he ever told you that you are too fond of play, that you like to be idle, that you are greedy for every thing nice, and that

you sometimes fly into a passion? I rather think that he never told you so.

H. But, mamma, am I so naughty?
M. What do you think? Remember, God sees and hears you.
H. Why, I am not always quite so good as I should be; but one cannot help being naughty sometimes.
M. And is it right to be naughty?
H. Oh, no, quite wrong; it is much better to be good.
M. Then are those right or wrong who see your naughty tricks, I mean your faults; or, as they really are, your sins; and do not tell

you of them?

H. Certainly it is right to tell me of them; but then, mamma, it is so unpleasant to have Thomas always finding fault with me. He

never is with me for a quarter of an hour without blaming me for something.

M. Do you recollect the day we went to Sir Edward Walton’s? When the carriage came to fetch us, and it was time to get ready,

you ran and asked me for your best clothes.

H. Yes; for I should have been quite ashamed if I had gone to play with Sir Edward’s children in my old jacket and trowsers.
M. Suppose, just as you were getting into the carriage, Thomas had pulled you back, and told you there was a great spot of dirt

upon your frill, should you have been angry with him?

H. Certainly not; I should have thanked him, and should have gone directly and put on a clean shirt.
M. Then your wish to be neat would have made you willing to listen to his advice! Ah, my Henry, tell me, is not there one who is

much greater than Sir Edward, and before whom we must one day appear?

H. You mean, mamma, that we must appear before God.
M. Yes, that is what I mean, and I speak seriously. But are not we always in his presence? Whenever we pray to him, whether at

home, or in the House of God, we present ourselves before him. And above all, when our life in this world is ended, shall we not have
to appear before the judgment seat of Christ?

H. Yes, mamma, the Bible tells us so.

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M. And do you think that he who is so holy will be pleased to see things which are so wrong in your conduct; for instance, anger,

idleness, disobedience, greediness, or other wicked ways?

H. No; for the bible tells us that God “is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity.”
M. Well then if a person warns you of these faults is he your friend or your enemy?
H. Oh, I understand you now, mamma; he is really my best friend.
M. But what is he who will hide these faults and prevent you from seeing them, or even persuade you that they are beauties: what

ought you to think of him?

H. Why, he would be unkind, just as if he had let me go to Sir Edward’s with a dirty frill or a hole in my coat.
M. Henry are you aware that every sin is rebellion against God, against our Lord and Saviour; and therefore is very wrong?
H. Yes, I recollect it now; but I did not think of it before as I ought to have done.
M. Well, then, be thankful to those who tell you of these things, and love you so as to tell you of them, when they see that you

have forgotten them.

H. Then, mamma, do you think that William does not love me, because he does not tell me when I do wrong?
M. My dear boy, I fear that William flatters you, and that he will do you much harm; and I think that Thomas is a Real Friend,

because he fears God, and faithfully warns you when you are wrong.

H. But ought I to like Thomas better than William?
M. The Bible tells us, “He that rebuketh a man afterwards shall find more favour than he that flattereth with the tongue,” (Prov.

xxviii. 23.); and I am sure, if you wish to obey God you will believe his word.

H. Yes, mamma, I do wish to obey God, because I know that is the only way to be happy.
M. Well; now, Henry, I will let you choose; you may go where you like best.
H. Then, mamma, I will go to Thomas, and ask him to come and see me.
M. I also wish you to see William and tell him how wrong he has been, and how unkind he is to you. Do this openly and with

truth, and shew him that you do not wish him to be a flatterer but a Real Friend.

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IDLE DICK.

Richard Watson was twelve years old; his father kept the village public-house.

I am sorry to say that Richard’s father was not a good man; he drank and swore, and his house was the resort of all the wicked

fellows in the neighbourhood.

There was no Bible in the house; he never prayed to God nor attended public worship, but spent Sunday just like any other day.

He bought and sold, and drank, and swore, and quarrelled on that day, just as if there was no Fourth Commandment and as if God
had never said, “nor drunkards nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.” (1 Cor. vi. 10.)

I need not say that such a wicked man did not bring up his family in the fear of the Lord. He was a widower, and Richard was his

only child. It was even said that his mother’s death had been hastened by sorrow for her husband’s evil conduct.

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While she lived, Richard was sent to school and had learned to read; but after her death his father kept him at home, and said he

would teach Richard himself, but he never took any trouble about it.

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Richard grew up without learning any thing more, except to write just enough to keep an account of what the customers called

for. His time was employed in waiting upon them, or in washing the pots and glasses, and setting up ninepins for those who played.
Poor boy! you may suppose he heard nothing good. At last, by listening to oaths and wicked words, he took pleasure in hearing them,
and soon began to make use of them himself.

What was the end of all this! Why before he was twelve years old, Richard Watson was looked upon as the most good-for-

nothing mischievous fellow in the neighbourhood.

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He was idle, fond of play, and what was worse, a gambler, a thief, and a complete scoundrel.
You might hear him speak saucily to his father, and even laugh at him and disobey his orders.
He had frequently been punished, but at length he despised both blows and reproofs, and used to run away from home whenever

he expected to be punished.

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He was the disgrace of the village, and was known by the name of “Idle Dick.”
Mr. Watson began to think that if his son went on in this manner he would come to the gallows at last, and determined that he

would try and reform him.

How did he begin? at first he said, “Dick, if you do not mind your work you shall have nothing to eat.” Dick laughed at this, and

went to the pantry and helped himself.

His father discovered it, so he shut Dick in the cellar for two days and gave him nothing but bread and water.
This punishment had some effect. Dick behaved better for one week, but the Thursday following he went to a fight in the

neighbourhood, and staid there all day among gamblers and pickpockets.

His father saw Dick on his way home, and gave him such a beating that he laid down on the path-way unable to stir. Old Joseph,

an honest basket-maker, and another man who lived in the village, came by and together they carried him home, where he was for
some days confined to his bed; and he was so much hurt by the severe beating, that for a whole week he could not walk further than to
the bench at the door.

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Poor Dick, as you will recollect, had lost his mother! Ah! it is a sad loss for children when God takes away their mothers.

Nobody in the house cared about Dick, nobody tried to persuade his father to treat him kindly, or advised Dick to behave better. If
any body noticed him it was only to laugh and say, “Ah! you idle fellow, you have got what you deserve.”

A few doors off lived a poor woman named Maud. Her husband was a pedlar, and was absent from the village a great part of

the year; but she staid at home and earned her living by making lace.

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This good woman had a daughter named Jenny, about the same age as Richard, but she had been brought up in a very different

manner; for as soon as Jenny could understand what was said to her, her parents had taught her to love and serve God, as the Bible
directs us. She learned to pray regularly, and attended divine service every Sunday.

Whenever Jenny was naughty, her mother used to remind her that God saw her, and that she had disobeyed his word, which tells

us, that children are to honor their parents, to be gentle and industrious, and always to speak the truth.

Sometimes it was necessary to punish Jenny, but her parents did not chastise her in wrath, but with kindness, as we read in the

book of Proverbs; “Withhold not correction from the child for if thou beatest him with the rod he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with
the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.” (Prov. xxiii. 13, 14.)

This kind correction had been blessed by Him who directed it in His word; and as Jenny grew up she was the most dutiful, the

most industrious, and the most pious of the young people in the village.

She never was seen flaunting about with those idle giddy girls who are so fond of laughing and giggling at every thing they see, and

forget that a modest quiet spirit is, in the sight of God, an ornament of great price. 1 Pet. iii. 4.

Jenny lived quietly at home, and tried to be as serviceable as possible to her mother; and very useful she was, as all little boys and

girls may be who try to make themselves so.

It was Jenny who swept out the cottage every morning and dusted the furniture; it was Jenny who fetched water and went to the

shop for every thing that was wanted, and her mother often trusted her to carry work home to her employers.

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Every thing she did, Jenny tried to do well, and it was always done quickly and properly.
Now can my little readers tell me, how so young a person could be so useful and behave so well? It was by the blessing of God;

for, like Joseph of old, God was with her, and that which she did, the Lord made it to prosper.

You will suppose that her time passed very differently from that of Idle Dick, who was, as we read in Isaiah lvii. 20, 21: “Like the

troubled sea when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt,” for “there is no peace saith my God to the wicked.”

My readers will observe, from this history, how great a difference there is between the righteous and the wicked, between those

who serve God and those who serve him not. Compare Jane and Richard, and say which of these two was the happiest? The boy who
knew nothing about Jesus, or the girl who had taken the yoke of Christ upon her?

But to return to my story. Maud was at home the first day that Dick was able to come out after the beating of which I told you.

Poor fellow! he was sitting at the door in the sun, and looked very pale and ill. Maud saw him, and asked him how he did.

Dick did not answer, though she spoke very kindly; he only made a face at her, and looked another way.
Maud did not mind this, and at last got him to say that he was unwell, owing to the beating which his father gave him.
This kind neighbour then tried to make him understand that it was very wrong to go from home without leave, and that a child

committed a great sin when he rebelled against his father.

“My father hates me,” said Dick in a revengeful tone, “he always has hated me, and he would be glad to see me dead; but—but

I’ll run away from him some day or other.”

Maud tried to calm him, and to convince him that he was wrong in thinking that his father hated him, but her kindness seemed to

be of no use; Dick got up and went into the house without even saying, “I thank you.”

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In a few days Dick got well again, and I am sorry to say the first thing he did was to go with some other good-for-nothing fellows

to rob an orchard, when one of whom fell and brake his arm.

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This was done one Friday night, Dick got out at his bed-room window, which was over the roof of the stable. They were the

greater part of the night about this wicked robbery, and when it was done Dick returned to his room in the same way, after hiding his
share of the plunder among some faggots in the yard.

It so happened that his father wanted to move this wood to make room for something else, and he and the ostler set about it the

next morning. They soon found the bag full of apples and pears which Dick had put there.

“What is this?” exclaimed the father with an oath, “this is another trick of that good-for-nothing fellow master Dick; I’ll give it him

properly for this.”

Dick was still in bed; hearing this he jumped up and ran to the window, where he saw that his father had snatched up a horsewhip

and was coming in doors. “O father, father!” cried he, “forgive me this once, pray put down the whip.”

Maud was in her garden and heard what was passing. She came to the hedge and said, “My good neighbour, pray do not treat

your son so severely, it will only harden him,”—“My good woman,” replied he, “mind your own daughter; I know how to teach dogs
good manners, and my good-for-nothing son must be treated like Boxer yonder.”

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Maud continued to intercede, and at length Mr. Watson consented that Dick should not be flogged, but only shut up in the cellar.

“The Publican, saying Well neighbour, I will do so, if it is only to shew you how kind and gentle I am. Go, Peter, and put the good-for-
nothing fellow into the cellar: you nay give him a crust and a mug of water. But Dick, mind me, I promise you that the next nonsense
you are after I’ll give you a thorough flogging.”

Perhaps you will say, now Dick will be more careful, or he must be a very foolish fellow. The Bible tells us, that “the sow that

was washed is turned again to her wallowing in the mire,” (2 Peter ii. 22.) and Dick returned to his wicked ways, as I am going to tell
you.

One Saturdays afternoon, as he was setting up the ninepins in the skittle ground, he saw some of his companions passing by, and

they beckoned him. Dick made a false excuse to join them, and promised to go with them the next day to a wake in a neighbouring
village, where there would be rope-dancing, wild beasts, and a puppet-show.

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He thought of the horsewhip: but such is the power of sin over the heart that is led captive by Satan at his will, that neither

punishment nor suffering can keep back those who are not restrained by the grace of God.

The next morning at day-break Dick and his companions set of to the village.
“But,” my readers will say, “how could this be—the next day was Sunday.”
What I am telling you about happened in a country where the people did not keep holy the Sabbath-day, not even in an outward

manner, and where God’s holy day is despised, there can be but little of true religion. But although most of the people in that country
profaned the Lord’s day and did not love the Saviour, still there were some few among them who were his children, and who both
loved and served him.

You may suppose that neither Maud, nor her daughter Jenny, nor old Joseph the basket-maker, wished to go to this wake. On

the contrary; in the morning when they saw their neighbours preparing to go, they felt more strongly than ever, that the pleasures which
a Christian enjoys, are more pure and more lasting, than the foolish empty enjoyments of those who despise God and his holy word.

Dick spent the day in all sorts of tricks; he pilfered gingerbread and cakes from the stalls that he might have something to eat, and

I am sorry to say he stole half-a-crown from a little girl who wanted to get it changed, and set some dogs to fight; in a word, he
committed all sorts of roguery.

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When night came, most of the people had left the fair. One of Dick’s companions said to him, “It is late, let us go home.”

“Presently,” answered Dick; “I have been playing at pitch and toss for more than an hour and have lost almost all my money, I must go
on a little longer and win some of it back again.”

A quarter of an hour first, and then half an hour passed away. Dick still continued the game, and lost more and more, and swore,

and used a great many bad words, till at last his companion was tired of waiting, and returned home by himself.

The clock struck nine, when all at once Dick recollected the horsewhip and his father’s threat; away he ran as fast as he could,

but it was near ten before he got to the village. All was quiet, not a light was to be seen, except at the parsonage, and the public-house.

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You can hardly suppose how much afraid this unhappy wicked boy felt as he came to his father’s house. He stopped at the door

and listened. His father was speaking in a very angry tone, and swore he would break his horsewhip over the back of his good-for-
nothing son directly he appeared.

Dick was afraid to enter; he put his hand upon the latch, but dared not lift it up. How sad it is when a child dares not enter his

father’s house!—After walking all round the house he got upon the dunghill, and so climbed on the roof of the stable, from whence he
could just reach the window of his room. He got in and sat down, not daring to stir, nor hardly venturing to breathe.

His father continued to threaten louder and louder; Dick trembled from head to foot, and did not know what would become of

him, for he knew that his father would find him at last, and that he might depend on having a severe flogging.

“The fear of the wicked shall come upon him,” (Prov. x. 23,); the Bible tells us this. Dick had hardly been ten minutes in his room,

when he heard his father open the door at the foot of the stairs, saying, “Perhaps this good-for-nothing fellow has got in at the window,
I’ll go and see.”

In a moment Dick was out of the window, over the roof of the stable, down upon the dunghill, and along the garden, and had

jumped over the hedge before his father got up stairs.

When he was in Maud’s little field, he saw a light in her lower window;—not knowing what to do, he determined to knock at the

window, and ask this good woman to help him.

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Maud had family prayer regularly every evening with her daughter and Joseph’s old servant —— The Bible laid upon the table,

and just as Dick came to the window, she was saying something about what she had read; he could not hear what she said, but he was
impressed with reverence and did not knock for fear of disturbing them. After they had knelt down and prayed, they bid each other
good night and left the room.

Dick was struck with this, but was obliged to consider what he should do next.
The night was very dark, all was quiet—not a light was to be seen.—Dick once more climbed to his window, but the shutter was

fastened. He could not get in, and at last was obliged to lie down upon a heap of dry leaves under a shed along with the dog Boxer.

His sleep was not very sound, and the stars were still shining when he awoke. The first thing that he did was to get out of the

village as soon as possible, for he was more afraid of meeting his father than the evening before.

It was market-day at the next town, and Dick knew that his father meant to take a pig there to sell; so he waited under the hedge,

peeping out like a fox in his hole, watching till his father should pass by.

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Just as the sun rose, he heard a waggon coming, and looked through the hedge, hoping it was his father: he saw the well-known

team, and it was going towards the town—but it was driven by Peter the ostler?

The waggon went by; Dick remained in his lurking place without knowing what to do. He began to be hungry, but had nothing to

eat, not even a crust of dry bread, and was well aware that if he went home the whip would be laid across his back.

While thus full of doubt and fear, he went to the gate which led to the common, and leant over the stile thinking what he should

do.

In a few minutes Jenny passed by. This good industrious girl had a rake over her shoulder, and was going to rake up the hay

which had fallen from the carts on the Saturday evening as they went across the common.

Jenny was a good deal surprised, and even a little frightened, to see Dick at that place so early in the morning, lest he should play

her some trick. However, she mustered...